Murder Regret Despise Love
by livingonakiwi
Summary: AU. After Cheryl's engagement party, Brendan doesn't hit Ste. Story starts when Brendan makes his way home in the early hours of the next day; ends after Brendan pushes Walker in front of the train. Angst, happiness and maybe, just maybe, a happy ending. Ste/Brendan. Rated T for strong language and some scenes of distress. Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

AU. After Cheryl's engagement party, Brendan doesn't hit Ste. Story starts when Brendan makes his way home in the early hours of the next day; ends after Brendan pushes Walker in front of the train. Angst, happiness and maybe, just maybe, a happy ending. Enjoy.

* * *

_It's not easy putting together a life when you can't remember where the pieces fit, but I'm trying. Murder. Regret. Despise. Love. But how do I go back from this? How do I get the image of a train-crushed skull from my head with the blame etched into my skin? I don't know where it all fits, but I'll find a way, for you. All for you._

* * *

Chapter 1: Going Home

I'm shaking when I'm standing at the door, praying that I remembered my keys. I can ascertain that the lights are off behind the drawn curtains, although it could be my drunker-stupor. Regardless, I'd rather stay out here all night than wake Steven up if he was already asleep. I'd put him through enough, he doesn't need another sleepless night.

When I trip over the doorstep I feel the keys rattle in my pocket. Task one accomplished, I think to myself. I drop the half-empty whiskey bottle to retrieve them and it lies in shards on the ground.

_Shhh. _I hold my finger up to my lips, looking down at the ground. Why is everything so noisy? What time is it?

I reach forward shakily with the keys. _Concentrate. You can do this. Just…_

"What the fuck are you doing?"

_Shit._

"Not'n," I mumble.

"Oh for fuck sake," Steven mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes. He extends a hand out to me and grabs me by the lapel of my blazer, pulling me forwards into the hallway. "You're a mess," he breathes as he does so.

I grunt in response, I'm too far beyond the threshold of conscious thinking and basic coherency to say anything else, and the self-conscious part of me that acknowledges the importance of my relationship tells me to shut the fuck up and go to bed; but I don't want to go to bed. I don't know what I want to do, but I know that I don't want to go to bed.

_I don't want to sleep. _Sleeping leads to dreams. _I don't want to dream._

Steven strips me of my blazer and hangs it on the coat rack. Somewhere in my mind I'm screaming at him to put it on a hanger, but my mouth stays shut.

"Jus' stay there. Don't move." I nod vaguely, yet he's turned the corner into the kitchen before my instincts kick in to respond.

I lean against the wall, pressing my drunken weight against the plaster and feel the scrapes on the wall from my earlier attack seeping through my cotton shirt like poison. My legs buckle beneath me willingly and I sink to the floor. The poison soaks through the cotton, dripping down the wall and trickling through into my skin. I shudder.

When I glance up, Steven has turned on the light - f_uck me that hurts_ - and he's staring at me with an expression that I can't quite sum up. Just when I catch a glimmer of anger, it shifts shape into a sort of stale boredom. It makes me feel self-conscious so I look away.

"Here." He thrusts the glass towards me. In the corner of my eye I see a fist, I see _his _face, and I flinch away from him. "Hey –" He drops down to one knee, surveying me with that glass of water still extended, _his _fist a statue behind my heavy eyelids. _It's me._ He announces. _I know._

_No._

"No."

"Brendan, it's me, Ste. Bren." He strokes my arm. "Bren-" He pleads. "Open your eyes. Com'on. Bren, it's me. It's okay," he soothes. His voice softens. When I dare to look back his expression of stale boredom has switched to worry.

I swallow my breath.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I di'n't mean it, about you' dad. I jus'-" He rests his hand softly over my neck, draping his fingers gently over the hair at the nape. "I was jus' angry. You know wa'r'it's like, and you were bein' such a dick'ead and I jus', well, I jus' di'n't mean it."

I test the sincerity in his words, stare into his eyes for as long as I can take it before shifting my gaze away. I don't doubt that he means it, but everything is just so fucked up, and I'm _so_ drunk. Nothing makes sense. _You won't even remember this conversation tomor… what time is it?_

_Time to sleep._

"I know."

_No. Not sleep. No. Stay awake._

The statue behind my eyes drags the drapes of sleep over me. I kick my leg out, hitting my foot against the cooker where not even a week before I had cried into the shoulder of the only man I'd ever love.

_You're so drunk. Go to sleep._

"Let's go'a bed." Steven puts the glass of water down on the floor before standing up, offering his hand to me. I take it slowly, and force my legs to straighten up.

"What time is et?" I ask as I follow the light down the corridor.

_I don't want to sleep._

"About three. Com'on." I sit lightly on the bed. I don't want to recline. _I don't want to dream._

"Lie down." I shake my head. "Com'on, lie down." He pushes at my shoulder. I waver slightly in my state, but stand my ground. Steven sighs.

"I give u…"

My breathing stops. I can tell that he senses it. His eyes dart to me no faster than he drops the final consonant into the silence; no faster than his hands reach out and pulls me into his embrace as I fall apart. Again.


	2. Chapter 2

AU. After Cheryl's engagement party, Brendan doesn't hit Ste. Story starts when Brendan makes his way home in the early hours of the next day; ends after Brendan pushed Walker in front of the train. Angst, happiness and maybe, just maybe, a happy ending. Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 2

It takes me a while to come to my senses in the morning, and the offensive light pouring in from the window doesn't make things any easier. All I know is that I made it home last night, but god knows how. Amongst the blanks in my memory, the most important thing to me is knowing what damage I did to Steven and I.

It's difficult to get out of bed and, when I find the courage to stand up, the whiskey burnt muscles of my legs ache stupendously; when I try to move they feel like lead weights. I make my way slowly to the door, partially because my hangover does not permit me the movement of any normal human being, and partially because I don't know whether Steven is sleeping on the couch. I hope to God he isn't. If he let me sleep in the bed whilst he slept on the sofa I'll probably end up punching myself in the face.

When I make it to the living room I discover that it is empty. The TV is turned off. Long gone are the days when the whimsical music of children shows filled the air. The silence is stale and I know already that Steven is gone. I contemplate texting him but I assume he doesn't want to be near me right now, otherwise surely he would have stayed to see me wake. It's a Sunday and the deli doesn't open on a Sunday.

I go to the bathroom and, whilst waiting for the shower to heat up, I splash my face with cold water, which sort of defeats the purpose, but I'm not a man of rational thought with a headache the depth of the Atlantic Ocean. I run the cold water in a glass and down it in one with four pain killers, hoping to God that the alcohol that remains in my system doesn't mix with them to create some sort of lethal cocktail. I strip out of my clothes, which only now do I notice are exactly what I was wearing yesterday, and I discard them on the floor in a disarray.

The shower is lukewarm when I step beneath. I manage to relax slightly beneath the warm tones but my muscles ache like I've been hit by a car. I wonder where Steven is. I wonder if he's alright.

It don't spend long in the shower, just long enough to wash my hair and cleanse my skin of the stale smell of alcohol. I feel less tense when I step out and wrap a towel around my waist. Avoiding my reflection in the mirror, I brush my teeth for a few minutes longer than usual, to get rid of the bitter-sweet after taste that lingers on my tongue.

I walk across the hallway still as quietly as possible, a force of habit from when the kids would sleep in on a Sunday morning and neither Steven nor I wanted to wake them. The feeling of guilt makes my stomach drop and I sit down on the bed and breath slowly, calmly, and try to remember what happened last night.

All I can remember is alcohol. Whiskey in the club. A lot of whiskey in the club, and that's all I remember. I feel as though I can still smell it on my skin, but I figure it's probably the sheets so I strip the bedding and make my way to the kitchen, still clad in nothing but a towel. I fear that the towel is now infected with whiskey scent and I throw that in with the washing load also. I figure I probably shouldn't stand naked in the kitchen, although the kids aren't here any more - neither is anyone else - and it's not like it's never occurred before, but I suddenly feel exposed.

As I turn to leave the room I kick something on the floor accidentally. I look down to find a glass full of water, or, I assume, that was previously full of water, lying on the ground. "What the-" I think aloud. I reach down to pick it up and place the glass in the sink. It remains unwashed as I go to dress.

I throw on a pair of jogging bottoms from the clean washing basket back in the bedroom. I figure Steven might offer me brownie points if I put the entire basket away, so I spend a while doing that, organising the drawers and the wardrobe. It makes me feel less useless, but it doesn't make me feel useful either.

For a while I contemplate leaving the house to find Steven, or call Chez at least, or call him, but I assume again that he doesn't want to be near me. I don't really understand why I feel like this, it's almost innate, as though I subconsciously know what happened last night but nothing is coming to the surface. I can't seem to make light of my memories, so I throw myself down on the sofa and reach for the remote.

When I switch channel I notice that it is past midday. I wonder where Steven is again. I watch Top Gear repeats. Clarkson is shovelling coal to fuel a steam train. I wonder if Steven is alright.

* * *

I hear the padding of footsteps around the sofa through my sleepy delirium and I grunt as I stretch.

"You awake?" I hear Steven ask, his footsteps come to a rest as he leans over the back of the couch. I look up through hooded eyes and nod. Steven smiles, a smile I recognise to be entirely half-hearted. "You okay?" Although his question seems to be entirely sincere.

I nod again. "Are you?" My voice is hoarse when I speak and Steven smiles a little more convincingly. He stares at my intently.

"Last night-" he begins.

"I'm sorry," I interrupt instinctively. Steven seems taken aback. He opens his mouth a few times before finally remaining silent. Those are the only words we exchange on the matter for the time being. He leaves the room, I think to the bathroom, or the bedroom; I cannot tell apart the sounds of either door shutting through the cloudiness of my mind.

I sit up on the sofa and lean forwards, resting my elbows on my knees and dropping my head into my hands. I rub my eyes in an attempt to wake up, but I seem to remain in a permanent state of fatigue. When I glance at the television screen, Clarkson is long gone, and he has been replaced by a room full of men wearing suits. I check the time, it's almost six. I switch off the television and make my way to the bedroom, half hoping Steven is, and is not, inside.

I hear him before I see him, hunched over himself, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to me, head in his hands and sobs escaping his frame.

"Hey," I whisper, entering the room quietly. He jumps and looks back at me momentarily, before turning away and wiping his eyes. "Hey, what's wrong?" I question, kneeling down in front of him. He seems as though he's about to push me away when he reaches out, but instead he rests his hands on my shoulders and traces his thumbs along my collar bone. He sighs and sobs once more.

"We need to talk about last night," he breathes. My heart accelerates.

_Oh fuck_, I think to myself. _You hurt him, didn't you. You hurt him. Fuck, Brendan, you fucking hurt him, you fucking idiot. What the fuck is wrong with-_

It's almost as though he senses my terror and he places his hand on the side of my neck. "It's okay," he whispers. "You didn't do anything." I expel a heavy air of relief, not realising I had previously stopped breathing. He stares at me intently again, and I can see his attempt to formulate words in his eyes, the way he looks at me, concentrated, worried, _scared_.

"I don't really-" I begin.

"You were drunk," he whispers, eyes diverting from my gaze. _Well, no shit_, I almost say. I feel as though it might break the tension, but it could also make things worse and it's not a chance I'm willing to take.

"Makes sense," I settle for instead. I feel the resilient pounding in my temples returning, but I attempt to push it out of the forefront of my mind by focusing on Steven.

After a while he seems to be able to speak. "Is everythin' alright?"

I don't really know how to answer the question. I'm unsure as to whether he's asking about my hangover or about, well, everything in general.

"My head hurts," I respond honestly.

"Did you take tablets?" I nod in response. He mimics.

"But is everythin' else alright?" He continues. I shrug. "Cheryl's upset," he adds. I wonder if this is a change of conversational direction or a related tangent. "You didn't turn up her engagement party."

"Oh, fuck," I breathe, remembering vaguely what happened. Steven searched for my gaze again. "I, um. Well, shit, I don't really have an excuse."

"Was it 'cause'a your dad?"

I stop breathing for a moment, before regaining my composure.

"What's this got to do with him?" I respond defensively.

Steven senses my defence and backs up a little. "Nout, I just thought-"

"Thought what?" I urge.

"Last night..." He pauses, sealing his lips tight. He averts my gaze even when I search for it. He refuses to look at me, and looks everywhere but.

"Last night what?" He remains silent. "Last night _what,_ Steven?" I repeat.

He doesn't look at me as I respond.

"Nout," he sighs finally.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothin'. It's nothin'," he pushes. I draw myself closer to him. He squirms slightly, and I rest my hand tentatively on his leg to let him know that he doesn't need to feel threatened.

"Just tell me. Steven, tell me. Please?"

He looks at me for a long time with a blank expression, or an expression of so many mixed emotions that they blur together and therefore I recognise it as blank. It is, likesay, unrecognisable.

"You were cryin' and I just, Bren, I don't know, right. I don't know what..." he pauses, looking at the ceiling as though he was praying to God to give his words the strength to convey an air of honesty. "You just seemed so..."

"So what, Steven?"

He shakes his head, closes his eyes and sniffs. He wipes at his eye with the back of his hand. "It's always 'im, in't it?" He breathes. "I feel like I'm missin' something, like there's something between you and 'im that I don't know about, that you haven't told me about, but then I feel like maybe you have tried'a tell me and I just haven't picked up on it, like I'm lettin' you down." He pauses again to wipe his eyes of the tears. "Last night you seemed so... so broken and I... I just wish you'd let me know, if there were anythin' that was happenin', or if you need to talk, because, Bren, right, I'm not... I'm not going anywhere, right?"

I let his words sink in and eventually nod. I sink back onto my knees and take a deep breath. _Oh, Steven, if only I could tell you; if only you knew._

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Thank you for reading. Apologies for the extremely long update period.


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